


Ablation

by rednihilist



Series: Ecliptic [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, F/M, Post-Episode: s06e03 Oathbreakers, Post-Episode: s06e10 The Winds of Winter, Post-Episode: s07e07 The Dragon and the Wolf, post-resurrection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6814351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is he now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.
> 
> A/N: Because no one had written it yet. . .

There's a moment when he wakes up now, and inside that moment he is once more himself. It doesn't come any other time during the day and never at night, but when he's managed sleep and dreams and nightmares and premonitions and memories that were never his, then he's often rewarded with that moment. For five seconds, sometimes ten, he is Jon Snow with all of Jon Snow's troubles, all of Jon Snow's history, his grief and regrets, his guilt and shame, his envy, and almost before the moment evaporates—his joy and love and accomplishment.

The moment is a gift and a curse, as are all things in the North. And the moment, and the fact that it is very nearly the only time now in which he is truly the man he once was, is something both secret and precious. It's another truth he hoards away and swallows, never letting it breach the surface, like Ygritte, or Robb, or Lady Catelyn, or any of the countless tiny moments that made up that life he lived before. It wasn't a great life, and he hadn't been proud of it when he'd lived it, but it had been real and it—used to be his. He used to be Jon Snow. Whatever else he'd had or lacked, Jon Snow knew who he was.

The man sitting on the chair in front of the fire with a sword in his hands and a direwolf resting at his side does not. He should. He still calls himself Jon Snow, as do others. He still lives Jon Snow's life, with all its horrid and petty absurdity: the man who eventually did the right thing, only to come face-to-face with the reason why that might be the dumbest fucking notion in existence. Or the best. To die for something right, to live by a worthy code and ease even a small amount of the world's injustice, isn't that a noble life.

If only Jon Snow had stayed dead. What sat up from that table wasn't a man of principle with a burning desire to prove himself more than just the Bastard of Winterfell, a stupid boy ignorant of his own mother. No, he'd sat up on that table, and he's Jon Snow in more than name, but he's not the same Jon Snow and isn't sure, and isn't sure he wants to be sure, if he's now more than that naïve boy was or less. If he had hope, he'd say more. But he can't find hope and thinks it likely died in the snow, died with Snow, slid out with all that blood, all that passion and forgiveness, hope and goodness, like Old Nan's stories or Sansa's songs, gallant knights who upheld the kingdoms' honor, gracious ladies and dignified lords and kings who ruled with wisdom, and the Night's Watch, a noble order of strong and loyal men, brave brothers who stood true as one sword against the darkness. That bastard had listened too closely to Old Nan's tales, heard too many of pretty Sansa's pretty songs, and he'd believed in all of it.

The Night's Watch: a fucking joke everyone had known but him and no one had thought or cared enough to tell him, not before stupid Jon Snow had already sworn his life away, a life taken from him and given to—whoever he is now sitting here, with Longclaw, with Ghost, with Ser Davos and Melisandre, with Tormund and the wildlings Jon Snow stood his ground for, with the tattered remnants of a life that meant something, ridiculously small and silly as it was.

Who is he now, the man in this castle that used to be his home, with the men he once called brothers?

"You clean up as much of the shit as you can," Ser Davos had told him.

And looking at Longclaw in these hands, scarred and cold and pale as death, he knows that's about the only goodness he'll find in this, his second life, his first, his true life, as they go South, as he rides away from one life and seeks to end those of others, the Boltons at Winterfell, the Lannisters in King's Landing, the Freys at the crossing. Their lives are the shit he will clean up, the tragedy he will finally put an end to.

 

He owes that ignorant bastard boy trying to be brave to the last at least that much.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He banishes Melisandre and forgives the lords their refusals. And he tries to accept that this is real, that they are looking to him now. No one is coming to replace him or relieve him, no Father or Robb or Uncle Benjen. He's followed and led, and he's still scared shitless.

He says the words as they swear to him, him, the bastard of Winterfell, Lord fucking Snow. King in the Bloody North.

Tormund swears to him, as do his men here in the hall. Ser Davos gets down on one knee and pledges his sword to Jon Snow, and it's absurd. Sansa swears to him, smiling.

And he tries to forgive her, knowing he failed to heed her advice and yet certain he'd still ride to Rickon, still jump into that trap so clearly laid for him. He can't regret that. He wouldn't charge, if he could do it over, and he wonders, hopes, that if she had the chance—Sansa would tell him about the force from the Vale, about Littlefinger. Did she know and withhold it from him? Why hide it? What did she fear he'd do with the knowledge? What did she think she'd lose if they were both in this together? He feels betrayed and can't quite parse out why. It was smart. She was right not to trust his ability to stay levelheaded. But it was such a ruthless gambit, as she bet the lives of the men they'd managed to assemble, and his life, and Rickon's.

Was it to secure Winterfell? Her revenge? If so, he'd better understand than were it the alternative: that Jon and Rickon and all the men and women fighting this bloody fight meant less to her than the swift victory.

Perhaps she didn't know for sure, but then why not tell him? They would have waited if he'd known the possibility existed.

Was she ashamed? Did she resent the fact she had to accept Littlefinger's help? But didn't this prove she trusted even that man more than she did Jon?

Does he even know her? She's not that girl who rode away with Father, and they were never close to begin with. Can he trust her?

But he's said he forgives her and won't ask his questions, just to prove that's true. This is how grudges grow, but what is the other option? Question her, receive an answer he doesn't want, confirm what he already suspects, and succeed only in widening the gap between them instead of bridging it.

She apologizes without saying for what, and he forgives. He's the older. It's his responsibility now, isn't it? What Father had said, that everyone was his to look out for, to worry about, that's Jon's lot as well, to protect these fools who see something in him he knows isn't there but for wishful thinking. He'll disappoint them before long, and they'll turn on him. And maybe he's screwy to hope they all die by the Others before that happens, but death isn't scary. Death is nothing; it's an end, just the candle burning out and silence. What's worst is failing, being left behind as others pay the price for his mistakes, seeing in their eyes the truth that he's a fraud, a traitor, some stupid bastard good for fighting and not much else.

He isn't meant to lead, but people keep trying to follow.


	3. Chapter 3

She is a vision, and he thinks he should feel honored to be here, lucky, if that's the right word, for living again long enough to see her and perhaps her so-called 'children' with his own eyes. He doesn't feel lucky; he feels numb.

Jon reaches back with his left hand, and Ghost is there, his body, mind, and soul still wholly intact. If anything is still like it once was—Ghost remains unchanged, silent and heavy and roiling with banked rage. He is the walking chip on Jon's shoulder, his alienation made flesh. Of course that wouldn't have changed afterward. If anything, Ghost has grown, the mirror of everything he cannot escape, everything, Jon is starting to realize, he truly is, magnified and magnifying, a lens through which he cannot now _not_ view the world.

Her herald has dark skin and her war general. Beside them on the dais is Lord Varys, about whom Jon has heard many things, from Sansa, from Tyrion on the journey here. Back farther stand more figures, one of them cloaked in scarlet robes, a woman, and Jon jerks his attention away. A different Red Woman, this, but he does not want to think of. . .

They stare at Jon as he stands in the doorway, and Jon-the-boy would have tried not to stare in return at such wonderfully strange faces, would have failed, curious and self-conscious boy he'd been, fascinated by proof of other lands, other worlds, other fates outside the North.

But all the world is the North, only hotter or wetter or even more barren, with different people who are all the same. Everywhere is where he is, where he'll always be, where he will die. He won't ever escape what he is and who he was. There is only one land, one fate.

He is introduced as 'King in the North,' and what a joke it is. Entering the hall, he glances at the others before looking at this Targaryen queen. Ghost trotting beside him, silent and pale—pale as the queen's hair. Her people look at Ghost, nervous, angry, but she looks at him.

A vision from another world with another ruler, another House, another father and mother, Jon is frowning, always frowning. His face knows no other expression. Mayhaps it's misplaced or belated grief.

He stops a respectful distance from her seat, nodding his head in respect. Jon-the-boy would have proudly, immediately dropped to his knees, the sound of it harsh and satisfying, bone on stone. That boy displayed his loyalty, his gestures of faith like banners. If he could prove everyone wrong about him, then they would accept him; then they would know him; then they might love him as their own. Jon-the-boy believed prudence the enemy of love.

What a sad little fool.

"Your name is Snow," the queen says, cutting to the quick. How efficient, knocking him down before he can even blink once in her presence. She has dragons; she's a Targaryen; he'd expected her to be ruthless.

He waits, silent, for it wasn't a question. 'Be silent before your betters,' the Lady had often scolded Jon-the-boy. Always frowning, Lady Catelyn: something more they share.

Everything is silent and dark in this hall. Tyrion had told him of the dragons, and Jon had wondered if he would see them before he left to return to Winterfell. What a story for those who remained behind, for Sansa and all the Free Folk and Northerners about to die fighting the dead, something warm and alive to give them courage, to quicken their hearts before the battle against the Long Night, something to fight for. Now Jon wonders if he'll even make it out of this hall. To greet him with an insult: only royalty is so bold and cruel, royalty and the poor.

"I've heard much of your character, King Snow," she says, "and that of your father's family. Come," and she lifts a hand, "let us speak openly. I am glad you accepted my invitation. What think you of Dragonstone, the home of my ancestors?"

Mercurial. Beautiful and intelligent and deadly. Targaryen, Jon thinks, unmoved.

"It once more lives up to its name, Your Majesty," he says, inanely. "That's all any of us can hope for."

He looks up, and the queen is smiling, extending her hand to her right, where Tyrion stands, smug as ever.

"My Lord Hand has been your staunchest supporter. I trust your journey here was pleasant?"

Is it wishful thinking, or is she reaching? Anyone else, and he'd think her struggling for conversation.

Could he somehow be intimida– ?

" 'Pleasant,' " he repeats. He refrains from sighing, finally realizes her eyes are in fact the legendary purple, not blue like he'd thought upon entering the hall. Jon opens his mouth to, as respectfully as possible, steer them away from small talk in the hopes of getting to what she demands of him—when from his peripheral, he catches sight of someone shifting, one of the figures standing at the back of the room behind the queen.

He looks, and, yes, it is true, what Sansa had finally confided, what Tyrion had confirmed.

He looks, stares, and the shifting continues. Always so restless, and that hasn't changed. A sea between who they were at Winterfell and who they are now standing before a Targaryen queen, and still Theon fidgets intolerably. How disrespectful of him, of Jon, not to stand at attention and focus solely on the queen. All those lessons of their youth, wasted.

No teasing, like there would have been, though. No jab about how base and like a bastard to place his interests above such as Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, last of the Great House, etc.

Mayhaps, Jon thinks, unable to put just one name to what he feels looking at Theon, it's misplaced or belated grief.  

Dragons, a dangerous and potentially mad queen speaking to him, and all Jon can think is that there stands a man he once called friend, a man whose skill with the bow had once saved his life on a hunt, someone who helped Sansa escape the Boltons. There stands a man who betrayed Robb, who betrayed Winterfell, who betrayed all the noble Lord Eddard Stark had endeavored to teach them as boys.

The queen has no doubt noticed his distraction, but it's Tyrion who breaks the silence.

"Not a happy reunion then," he says, glib as always.

It's enough. Jon looks away, turns back to the queen. Definitely unsure, he realizes, upon seeing her expression. The mask she wears is admirable but not enough. Grief, rage, terror, yes, these she knows, but still she looks so very young to him. Not vulnerable or naïve, and it takes him a moment, but he realizes it's likely passion, hope, fervor, conviction. She believes in what she's doing, believes she will live to see an end to the fighting. She is alive with purpose, with righteousness.

A vision, something alive and warm to give him courage?

"Your Majesty," Jon says, "what would you have of me?" He tries to be tactful, but he is not cunning or polite. He is not hopeful or wise. He is not even powerful, not outside of the North and not overly so within it, either. He will make her a poor ally, for he is tired, and there is likely no outcome for him. But he is not a coward, and he does not give up.

"King in the North," this queen repeats, "and do you set yourself below me then, King Snow, to address me by title and not by name?" When she makes a point, she tips her head back. Jon wonders if it's an affectation. "What I would have of you," she says, "is what I have been led to believe you will freely, gladly agree to, and that is an alliance."

Ah.

There she is, the dragon queen. Not hesitant when it comes to speaking her own mind, just in the interaction and dealings with others. He almost feels–

Jon shifts, unlocking his knees, rolling his shoulders, and carefully flexing his hand, as it still stiffens if he's not careful. He walks to his left and then returns, walks right, Daenerys's guards standing at attention against the walls, eyes forward in the middle distance. Jon paces, thinks what terms they can deliver, what the North could actually give this queen.

"Your Majesty," he says, pacing left, "nothing I say will change the future, and no promises will outlast my—death. What awaits me upon my return to Winterfell isn't Cersei Lannister and her army of gold." He stops, glancing at a stoic Tyrion before meeting the eyes of this queen, this Targaryen, this woman, and saying, "A legion of the dead march from the far North, and all that's standing in their way is the Night's Watch and whatever force I can muster from the remaining Northern Houses." He pauses, takes a deep breath, and jumps off the cliff. "I am king of nothing, Your Majesty, and whatever army you'd hoped to gain for the fight to reclaim your family's throne doesn't exist."

"What of the Vale?" she asks, and she's almost smiling.

Jon sighs. "Not mine to command."

"And the wildlings?" she asks next, her brief hesitance showing her unfamiliarity. Jon wonders what else she's unfamiliar with in this, the land she aims to rule.

It's a trickier question, so he takes his time. He stops pacing and meets her eyes. "The Free Folk," he says, pointedly, "go where they will. They fight for what they will."

"And they fight for you," Daenerys says. More shifting behind and around her, Tyrion looking between the two of them, but Jon only has—perhaps just enough to spare for Daenerys, enough time, enough energy, enough concern.

Jon looks down, at his feet, at the floor, at the stones of this castle on the sea, deep and dark, grey and black, wet heat and history. The founders of Daenerys's House fled the Doom, heeded one who predicted the collapse of old Valyria and ventured West. Here, they made a new home, with their dragons, with their dead history and bloody future. Arya had loved stories of the Targaryens, admired them.

Jon stands here where those aged refugees once stood, perhaps paced where he paced. Here on Dragonstone, his death is both behind and before him, his own history as muddled and shameful as those ancient dragon riders' with all their quirks, madness, and superiority. Theon here, Arya, Sansa there, Ygritte, Lady Catelyn, Robb, Olly, and yet Bran, Sam, Rickon—and Father, who is here now and forever behind, who lingers in Jon's mind. What secrets might Dragonstone keep to this day? What secrets would Jon keep?

He takes several steps forward, motioning for Ghost to stay where he is, and Daenerys's guards do not move. Her war general continues to, as he has this entire time, stare at Jon, only now Jon returns the look. Then he nods. The man doesn't return the nod, but he doesn't move towards Jon or signal his soldiers to bar his way, either.

Four steps away, Jon stops. He's seen beautiful women before. Ygritte was beautiful; Sansa is beautiful; Cersei Lannister, for all she's poison, is undeniably beautiful. Daenerys Stormborn is something else entirely. Jon meets those purple eyes and thinks mayhaps he sees behind her, too, the struggles to come this far, the lost, the left, the betrayers and betrayed. And what about her future?

Jon is doomed, like his father and likely his mother, doomed from birth to death and soon death again, but maybe he can be a ghost, his Ghost, like the ghosts of Targaryens past that hold Dragonstone intact, that reach forward through indignity and defeat, through Daenerys, through death to live in people's minds once more. The stones here are alive with time, thick with it, history, the ghosts of people who lived and loved and fought and failed. Legacy. No children, no wife. No Night's Watch anymore, but somewhere deep he still is. Somewhere deep, he's still Jon.

Mayhaps Jon can be part of this story past death. He's lived twice now already.

"They fight for me," Jon says to Daenerys, "because I died for them." She frowns at him, likely confused as to whether he's exaggerating. "But then again, my Queen," he dares, "I didn't have dragons."

Daenerys's eyes widen, before she secures her formal mask once more. "No," she agrees, pointedly looking over Jon's shoulder, past him, to where Ghost remains, "just the lone white direwolf." Jon sees her make the decision a second or two before she acts on it. Daenerys stands, and Jon is amused she's not that much shorter than he is. A quick flick of her hand at her general, and she's brushing past Jon on her way across the stones. "Won't you introduce me, King Snow?" she asks, a few paces from Ghost, saving the clincher until Jon is at her side: "Then I think a walk is in order. Stretch our legs a bit."

She turns her head, and Jon thinks, dragons.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

He’s still somehow surprised the edge of the world isn’t The Wall or death or resurrection or even love.

The edge is something unavoidable, something as simple as Jon being told he’s not exactly who he thought he was. It’s the edge and not the end because nothing changes inside him, just around him. The ground at the edge is stable and smooth; it just drops off; it’s just recognition. The cliff is there and always has been.

Jon is something of a Targaryen and always has been.

Maybe it’s a better fit than it should be, like the cloak Sansa had made for him when he was King in the North or the sword Lord Commander Mormont gave him. Maybe Rhaegal is more Jon than even Jon is sometimes, like Ghost, Jon’s soul wandering oddly familiar paths outside his body.

But then his body isn’t fully his body anymore and hasn’t been since it was dead. He himself is something other, something the fire brought back, and Targaryens if nothing else love fire.

“Like enormous cats, aren’t they?” comes Tyrion’s voice from the pit’s south gateway.

Jon’s got both hands up, scratching at an oddly loose scale to the left of Rhaegal’s crest, which has bothered the dragon for awhile now and Jon thinks might actually be about to come free.

Jon snorts at Tyrion’s comment and smiles when Rhaegal does the same, giving Jon a nudge when he briefly pauses his raking.

“Sure,” Jon says, craning his head to look over Rhaegal’s massive head at Tyrion, “replace hair and whiskers with scales and spikes, and they’re practically interchangeable.” He looks at the eye closest to him and says, “Ride into battle on one of the stable’s cats next time, eh? Give you a break?”

Rhaegal blinks and makes a deep rumbling noise within his throat. Jon grins, resuming his scratching.

“Will there be a next time?” Tyrion asks.

Jon can feel his smile slide right off the edge and drop down into the abyss. “There’s always a next time,” he says.

“You Starks,” Tyrion says, “such a cheerful lot.”

And Jon glances at him again, just in time to catch what on Tyrion must be regret and embarrassment. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

“I– I mean, that is to say– ”

Jon cuts him off. “It’s all right, Lord Tyrion. No use standing on formality now.”

Tyrion clears his throat and walks just a bit closer. “Yes, well,” he says, “you really should call me just Tyrion, you know, if we’re to avoid formality.”

“Not the Dwarf?” Jon jokes, trying for a smile. Tyrion’s smiles have always been something he appreciates.

He doesn’t get one.

Tyrion’s by the steps to Jon’s left, easy to see now without Rhaegal’s bulk blocking everything including the sun. He says, oddly serious, “Not when I can no longer call you the Bastard.”

Jon drops his eyes and realizes his hands have been still for awhile, yet Rhaegal hasn’t protested.

“Do you miss it ever?” Jon asks, unsure who it is he’s asking, if anyone, whether it’s himself or Tyrion or Rhaegal or the Lord of Light or the ghosts of his family, his father who isn’t his father but was really, his father who was never anything to him until a few months prior, or maybe it’s the mother who’s just as hazy and unknowable as she ever was.

“You mean before the war?” Tyrion asks.

“Wars,” Jon says, but he nods.

“Right. Before the _wars_ —with the dead and Stannis and your– Robb Stark, before I had any kind of purpose or, dare I say, respect, never mind prospects: do I miss that life?” Tyrion takes a moment, and Jon isn’t sure if he’s actually working through it or merely pausing for effect, but for all that the city and the dragon pit are never silent, for that tiny moment it seems like more than just Jon is waiting for Tyrion’s answer, like more is at stake. “Some parts maybe,” Tyrion finally admits.

Jon glances at him from the corner of his eyes, catches Tyrion looking away, and thinks he knows something of which parts, which people, Tyrion might miss.

Tyrion says, “We can’t go back. We can’t change any of what happened.”

“Not unless you’re Bran,” Jon mutters.

“Quite so.” Tyrion walks closer, until he’s within arm’s reach, and then he shifts into a familiar posture, head tilted just so and hands open at his sides. This is Tyrion about to ask a question he thinks he already knows the answer to. “Is this because of what I overheard in the bailey this morning?”

Jon winces.

He doesn’t answer.

And Tyrion’s right.

When Jon kisses Daenerys, it’s nothing like kissing Ygritte or the women in Winter Town. It’s more important in some ways and less so in others, different but good, even after he knows what they are to each other. It doesn’t feel wrong. Jon tries to match what he feels with the knowledge that this is his aunt he’s holding tight, running his hands over, kissing, stripping, kissing, tasting, sinking into. He tries to set the two of them next to the Lannister twins, but his mind can’t hold them together.

It’s different. They’re different. And often, when he’s headfirst between her thighs or she’s straddling his and grinning, when Jon is most within his body, he imagines the Lannister twins probably felt the same.

Perhaps the difference lies in what their love drives them to do, the actions they take as a result of knowing and loving each other, the temperance Daenerys has developed, her requests for more information, more counsel before making a hard decision. Jon likes to think they are better together, that they bring out the best in each other.

It’s a salve against the stares and disgust, most of which never reach Daenerys, and Jon knows this because he’s the one making sure.

He stands behind her, at her side, but he isn’t hers alone. And while he’d like to believe he learned ruthlessness from her, it’s just not true.

His rage is older than his life South, his resentment truer than any righteousness he might strive for in Daenerys’s court, and that’s all Stark, all North, bitter and brittle and dying young and stupid.   

“You’re so stupid, Snow,” Theon had once said, “you’d trade a blade for a smile.”

But he’s done well for himself and for others.

Because while some Targaryen traits fit him well and a few too well, desiring and effectively wielding power is not one of them. But maintaining it, fighting for it for the sake of others—that fits Jon perfectly, and that’s the Stark way.

Jon wants to believe he is hardened and fair like the father he thought was his, like Ned Stark whom even his enemies spoke of with respect. Instead, Jon fears he’s only misguided and destructive—like the father he never knew, like Rhaegar Targaryen who’s more tale and curse than man.

He’s terrified that in getting what he’s so desperately craved his entire life he will ruin everyone and everything he holds dear. Rhaegal and Ghost are Jon, and he is them, and maybe that’s why the two can’t stand each other: because Jon still can’t figure out how to stop fighting himself, how to be at peace, how to be happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some additional discrepancies here with, and adjustments to, show-canon, specifically regarding Dorne.
> 
> Aemon's advice is paraphrased from Bertrand Russell.

Standing here with Daenerys, Jon thinks of Maester Aemon, who’d wanted so desperately to meet and counsel what he had thought was his last living relative. Jon thinks of Aemon, and his heart aches for all they might have shared, had they only known the truth.

“The Last Dragon they call him now,” the maester said once. Late at night, and Jon only recently elected Lord Commander, and somehow they’d talked their way back to Aemon’s family.

Jon’s family now.

He remembers what he’d felt then, watching Aemon stare blindly toward the burning fire in the grate, recounting just a sliver of his family’s tragedy, reframing events to where even Jon was overcome with sadness and anger on his behalf.

How unsettled he’d been, reluctantly sympathizing with those on the wrong side of Robert’s Rebellion, but his sorrow back then was still only for Aemon’s sake and for the women and children hurt as collateral, not the Mad King and not the crown prince, the so-called Last Dragon, the man everyone on the right side knew to have been a rapist and abductor.

Jon had said something insipid in response, the words lost to him now, probably from embarrassment. But he remembers reaching for what his father, the man he’d thought was his father back then, might say in such a tricky situation—likely blunt and rude but honest all the same.

And Aemon hadn’t winced or laughed or corrected him. He’d only said, “War determines not who is right or just, Lord Commander, but merely those who are left.”

Now at Daenerys’s left in council and by her side in the field, he is often reminded of all he missed while at The Wall, bewildered by the distant goings-on south and west, consumed instead with surviving and dying and reclaiming Winterfell.

He missed out on knowing Maester Aemon as kin, and he’s missed knowing Daenerys.

And he’s been so far removed from everything for so long that hearing Grey Worm refer to a mysterious knight, his words respectful and poignant, has Jon frowning in confusion.

He manages to hold his tongue as Grey Worm continues, trying not to slow down matters or let on how off balance, how unsure of himself and his role he is here in Daenerys’s court.

But somehow Jon is always struggling to find his footing, always reevaluating what he’d thought true.

“The Ser,” Grey Worm is saying quietly, “would not have wanted us to divide our strength. He would say to con– con– ?” He trails off uncertainly, looking to Missandei.

“Consolidate?” she suggests.

“Yes,” Grey Worm says. “Stronger together.”

And Jon could almost believe he refers to Jorah Mormont, were the other man not in the room and nodding right along in agreement.

It’s Tyrion who enlightens him. One look at whatever expression of confusion Jon’s wearing, and Tyrion says, “Yes, and while I’m sure Ser Barristan would indeed caution against spreading the remainder of the Queen’s forces too thin, I also doubt he’d deny these are special circumstances, particularly as concerns Dothraki, mercenaries, what remains of the Lannister force, Northerners, Free Folk, and of course dragons for added spice.” He tosses a quick nod at Jon. “Oh, and Night’s Watch. Can’t forget them.”

Frowning, his mind already elsewhere, Jon mutters, “All 12 of them.”

And the discussion moves along, but he’s troubled about the fact Ser Barristan Selmy served Daenerys, even if for, apparently, only a short time.

The name still inspires in him cautious, tempered admiration, stirring up dim memories of playing at being knights with Robb.

Hours later, lying awake in bed and staring while Dany sleeps beside him, he realizes it’s envy. Jon feels somehow cheated because Dany knew Ser Barristan—Barristan, who knew Prince Rhaegar.

All of them dead, like Ser Arthur Dayne, purportedly Rhaegar’s closest friend, and who Lord Stark famously killed in Dorne.

And what of the family beyond the Starks and Targaryens: the Martells? One Martell still lives and rules in Dorne: Arianne.

But Rhaegar’s other children have been dead longer than they ever lived, and Arianne likely doesn’t remember her aunt Elia or her Targaryen cousins, and she wouldn’t want to meet Jon anyway. No blood of kinship between them, only war, only Jon’s parents ruining everything for Arianne’s family. Tyrion has mentioned Oberyn Martell in passing, and Varys obliquely referenced the coup in Dorne that resulted in Doran Martell’s death and Arianne’s coronation, but for all that Jon is in fact the legitimate son of a Targaryen prince, he is still forever the bastard, the family shame, and he doesn’t dare hope for more than what he is given.

He hasn’t in him the will to fight for more.

Jon rolls onto his side and slides his hand through Dany’s hair and knows that here is his place. Here, in the dark, they are even, Aemon for Barristan.

Rhaegar and Viserys and Rhaella and Aegon and Rhaenys.

Jon thinks of Lord Stark.

And, despite himself, he thinks of Lady Catelyn. He wonders, as he often does, feeling sick and ashamed and desperate, as he always did, if she might not have treated him differently had she known the truth. She was a good mother, and she loved her children, and she had hated Jon.

Daenerys shifts in her sleep, her arm lifting and wrapping around Jon’s waist. She pulls him close.

All of them are gone.

But Jon and Dany are still here.  


	6. Chapter 6

Jon doesn’t sleep, hasn’t since The Wall.

Dany doesn’t sleep well, either.

Perhaps it’s in their blood, one more thing they share, even if she’s more optimistic than Jon and more ruthless, even if she lies better and is more adept at political maneuvering, at ruling, at divorcing her emotions from her decisions.

Here, in the dark, in the silence, they’re alone together with their regret and shame.

She asks Jon, late one such night, wine in hand as she watches him weigh his next move in a game of cyvasse neither of them is winning, “Would you teach me how to wield a blade?”

He looks at her face, her eyes and mouth, and tries to determine what it is she’s actually asking. “Of course,” he says, trying to catch Dany’s eyes because that’s where she really hides.

Early in the game, she’d taken his dragon with her catapult, a move neither of them particularly relished, and he wonders now: is she avoiding him or thinking only of Viserion? Does she fear a specific threat in the court or simply seek to remedy a perceived gap in her education?

He dares hope she wants to learn from him specifically, to be closer, to share more, and because she appreciates his skill and knowledge, not just to keep it a secret or because it’s convenient.

But it’s his turn; Jon still has to make his move. Without his dragon, his chances of winning are perforce limited but not impossible, as Dany tends to rely heavily on her larger offensive pieces and neglect her archers, spearmen, and rabble, a habit Jon finds oddly endearing, but then he finds a great deal about her endearing.

Jon likes Daenerys despite their differences, but he thinks he loves her because of them.

Dany shifts in her seat, leaning forward over the board, mirroring Jon’s posture. “Small blade, I think,” she says, quietly.

Jon stares at his rabble, three moves away from taking her king if he’s careful and she’s as bold and impatient as usual. He asks, “Boot, back, or sleeve?” then thinks a bit. “Or chest?” he adds.

“Tyrion draws from his boot,” she says.

“Aye,” Jon says, moving a hand up to rub a little at his mouth before reaching out and curling his fingers around his elephant piece, “but your Lord Hand often plays at being drunker than he is, and a drunk man suddenly bending over is easy to explain.” Jon risks looking up, and there she is finally, looking back. “You don’t bend or bow, Your Majesty, and the blade has to come from somewhere.”

Dany doesn’t smile, but he thinks she wants to. Her eyes change when she’s happy and amused, as opposed to melancholy or indifferent. Jon probably looks at her eyes more often than he should. He probably looks at _her_ more often than he should.

She finishes off her wine and sets the glass aside, asking, “What would you suggest, King Snow?” and Jon feels something inside him that had tensed with her initial question—suddenly ease.

“Sleeve,” he says. His right hand’s still curved around the elephant, but his left is free. Jon reaches out under the table and slides his fingers slowly up and over Dany’s bare leg, up and over her bony knee, up and around her smooth warm thigh.

One corner of her mouth curves up, and then Daenerys is extending her leg and sliding down in her chair. She pushes her foot down right on top of him and asks, “But what if I’m wearing no sleeves?”

Jon takes a deep breath before yanking his right hand away from the cyvasse board and shifting around the small table, getting enough space to drop to his knees on the floor at Dany’s side. She has one leg curled up under her and the other still down on the floor, exposed, now that Jon’s moved. He runs his knuckles over the outside of that slim, pale leg again and says, “You’re too warm-blooded.”

Dany slips one of her hands into his hair and pushes his head back far enough that he can’t not look up at her face, can’t not see her flushed and soft and wide-eyed.

She looks at him with fire and wonder, and Jon likes to think she’s feeling for him what he feels for her. He likes to think this is what Daenerys always looks like when she’s looking at him, as though only they lived and breathed, or there were no right-side up, or the sky were just another kingdom she and he and their dragons could rule.

“No blade between my breasts then?” she asks, cheekily.

Jon grins. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he whispers, leaning closer until he can set his lips to the small, deep divot between her hip bone and rib cage, “if I’m against you drawing others’ attention—to your assets.”

Daenerys makes a huffing sound, amused, fond, indulgent. She moves, sliding off her chair and right onto Jon, pushing him to his back on the floor and following him down, skin to skin, fire and fire and ice.

Then she’s kissing him, open-mouthed and wet, her whole body aligning atop his. Jon reaches down with his hand and rubs deep into her, up past her legs to where she’s open and wet and hot.

She’s on top of him, above him, all around him, and he thinks more than he can ever say, about where he’s come from, what she makes him feel, how they could remake the world. He whispers only, “Daenerys,” and hopes she can hear beyond it.

She doesn’t smile or laugh or nod, but she holds one of his hands against her chest, her breast, her heart, as she rocks onto him, up and up and up, as high as they can go, like flying on the back of a dragon. In her eyes, he sees fire, remembers flying, as he breathes out against her skin, as he curves his other hand back into the space between her rib cage and hip.

And right as she’s peaking, Dany slaps one of her hands down against his stomach, her fingers digging in just to the right of where Ser Alliser’s blade had stabbed him. Her back curving away from him and her thighs clamped tight around his hips, Dany almost catches the edge of the still-open wound with her nails, and Jon comes suddenly, like thunder, something almost a roar escaping him. He turns his head and presses a kiss into Daenerys’s arm, a kiss with teeth as he bites down, as he leaves a mark there on her flawless skin, right where her sleeve will hide it away.

Then she’s drifting down to lie on top of him, chest to chest, her heart beating against his.

Jon says against her cheek, “Disguise it as a hairpin.”

And he feels her smile.


End file.
